Rebirth
by Monny287
Summary: Rule 36: If you think you're being played, you probably are. Tony puts the pieces together in the wake of "Family First." Tiva.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **A/N: I have been a Tiva fan for many years, but have been mostly a spectator in terms of fanfiction. I've read many wonderful Tiva fics on this site over the years and never once had the urge to contribute. In the wake of "Family First," that has changed. Set before (and then after) Tony's conversation with Gibbs at the end of the episode.**

Tony was quickly finding out that parenting had a learning curve akin to hurtling oneself off a cliff without safety gear. With your eyes closed. Backwards. That wasn't even taking into account the fact that the child in question was not quite two and had a poor grasp of the English language (and Tony's Hebrew wasn't too great, either). Not to mention his _zero_ childcare experience. All in all, it was adding up to be one of the most exhausting weeks of his life. Worse than his days a beat cop and the hours he'd kept as Senior Field Agent. All night stake-out in an agency car? Nothing compared to the weariness that seemed to settle to his bones.

Tali was far more perceptive than Tony had given her credit for. Her first three days had sailed by with relative ease—her issues with his idea of good food notwithstanding. Shy smiles were given freely and the slightest tickle set off a tirade of bubbly baby giggles. She was quiet and inquisitive. She had spent a full two hours one morning exploring every inch of his apartment, eyeing his central heating with interest and pulling all of the pots and pans out of the kitchen cupboards. Senior had gotten a real kick out of that, and had shown her how to use Tony's stock pot as a drum and a saucepan as a hat. Tony had feigned annoyance, but couldn't deny the pictures he'd snapped on his phone. She had been held and fussed over by every member of the MCRT team, much to her apparent delight.

Seventy-two hours in, and something suddenly changed. She woke early, awakening Tony with an ear-piercing scream in the night. She refused breakfast, sweeping her arm across the high chair tray and sending the bowl crashing to the hardwood. She threw a glare her father's way when he protested, and pushed his hands away with an enraged squeak when he moved to loosen the straps. She zoomed away from him as fast as her little legs would carry her as soon as her feet hit the floor. Tony had cleaned the mess and walked into the living room to find her curled in a ball on his couch, sobbing desperately into one of his throw pillows. She curled tighter into herself as he approached, and he could make out words through the sobs. Not many he could understand, but one that made his heart clench as she repeated it over and over. _Ima._ It hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. Tali was beginning to realize that Ziva was gone. Her _Ima_ was gone. This wasn't a vacation. _Ima_ had been there, and now suddenly she was not. He wondered momentarily if the full-bore inspection of his home had been his daughter searching for her mother—and coming up empty. Tony had felt like curling up next to her and joining her.

Since then, it had been an uphill battle. Senior was a regular in Tony's apartment, but didn't know much more about raising children than Tony did; he had infamously been a hands-off parent. Nothing Tony did or said seemed to help, and it certainly didn't do either of them very good that Tali understood very little of what he was trying to tell her. He had tried to reassure her in clumsy Hebrew that she was safe and that _Ima_ loved her. It had only made things worse. Eating was a fight, and he was becoming seriously concerned that the only thing she'd ingested in the last two days had been a small amount of yogurt. Sleep was hard to come by, and often happened after Tali had cried herself into exhaustion. It had taken two hours to get her to sleep tonight. An improvement over the previous night's two and a half hours, but that was little consolation. He'd worn a path around his apartment walking with her and rubbing her back. The only thing that seemed to help remotely was the scarf Tony had pulled from Tali's go-bag. Tali had used it as a pillow, bunched up against Tony's shoulder, with the slightly frayed edge rubbed between her tiny fingers. Surrounded by Ziva's scent, Tali had fallen into a fitful sleep. Tony didn't know what he would do when it needed to be washed.

Tony tip-toed carefully out of his bedroom, shutting the door most of the way, but enough so he could hear her if she woke. He had tucked her securely into his small twin bed, surrounded by pillows so she didn't roll off. The bedside table bathed the room in a soft glow; he wasn't even sure if Tali was afraid of the dark, but he wasn't taking any chances. Seeing Tali dozing in the small bed, her curls splashed over the white cotton sheets, reminded him starkly of when her mother had slept there, also grieving the loss of a parent. He hoped he would be able to provide more comfort and support for Tali than Ziva had allowed him to give to her.

Once in the living room, he toed off his sneakers and all but fell face-first onto the couch, groaning into the cushion with exhaustion. He was seriously going to have to look into getting Tali her own bed. He had another night on his couch to look forward to, and it wasn't doing his back any favors.

Tony rolled to his side and reached for the remote. He flicked on a random channel and willed sleep to come. Tali wasn't the only reason Tony's nights were long. His dreams were filled with _her_ —her voice, her smile, her scent. Fading quickly into a blast of mortar fire and a house engulfed in flames. Him on the sidelines, shouting himself hoarse as windows smashed and sirens wailed. Sometimes inside, with the panicked screams of his daughter from her room in the far wing. He woke often feeling more tired than when he had fallen asleep. He glanced at the framed picture Senior had unearthed from the go-bag; he placed it on the end table for Tali's easy reach. Paris. An easier time.

Given the late hour, all that was on were old sitcom re-runs and infomercials. He stared blankly at the screen, not really taking in the plot or the characters. He could have been watching an _I Love Lucy_ marathon, for all he knew. He considered putting in a movie, losing himself in the world of cinema as he had done following his own mother's death, but balked. He felt too tired to move and too tired to sort out a movie he had any interest in. The television show erupted into a fit of canned laughter before seguing into a commercial break. He let his eyes drift closed as a deep-voiced narrator expounded on the benefits of using their professional cleaning service following a flood or fire. _Like it never even happened,_ it promised. _No smoke or mildew scent._

It took Tony's brain less than two seconds to jump from mostly-asleep to wired-awake. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and stared at his television screen. He glanced at Tali's go-bag, now mostly empty, tossed in a corner of the room. He scrambled to where it was, and rifled through its remaining contents. He took a deep breath as he held the bag close to his nose. Baby powder, lotion, Ziva…no smoke. He reached for the scarf, now hanging on the back of the couch. He sniffed it. A heavy dose of Ziva's perfume. _But no smoke._ Tali's Doggy didn't smell like smoke, either. Orli had said Tali had been in a corridor of the house untouched by the fire. But Tony had watched the house be consumed by flames, great plumes of smoke reaching miles-high into the sky. All of the items in the go-bag, which had reportedly come from the farmhouse, should reek of smoke. Tali's Doggy should. But they don't. The bag had been packed earlier. _But why?_ He played back his conversation with Orli in the Navy Yard. There had been no body found, and her story had some holes in it. He had been too busy coming to terms with fatherhood to really pay much attention. As he pictured Orli's face and her distant sympathy, Gibb's voice echoed in his mind:

 _ **Rule 36: If you think you're being played, you probably are.**_

No body had been found.

 **A/N: Seeing as how this is my first NCIS fanfic, any and all criticism (but hopefully constructive criticism) is welcome! Let me know if I should continue or scrap it and return to my lurker ways. Also, I take no credit for the theory presented in this chapter; it's been floating around online all day.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **A/N: The response I've gotten to the one chapter I've posted so far has blown me away. What a refreshing change to post in such a live and welcoming fandom! Thank you all for your reviews and support.**

 _November 2013_

 _I'm fighting for you, Ziva._ The words, and the haunted, desperate way he had said them echoed in her ears and bounced around her mind. Such sincerity from the man who had always been what most people would consider immature. _Fighting for you._ She rolled over in bed as the last wisps of sleep swept themselves away. She stared at the cream-colored wall of the bedroom in her father's farmhouse, at the shadows made by the tree swaying in the breeze outside the window. _Fighting for you._

This house had once been a haven, a place where her younger self had felt safe, loved, and surrounded by the security and comfort of her parents and siblings. She had taken her first breaths here, her first steps, and read countless books in the back bedroom, which she had shared with her sister. She and Tali had spent countless hours playing in the olive grove where she buried her list, popping out from behind trees to scare each other. Creating tea sets for their dolls out of leaves. And the day Tali had picked a particularly large olive off a low-hanging branch and popped it into her mouth—Ziva had laughed until her stomach ached from the look on Tali's face. No one had told her fresh olives were bitter and the ones _Ima_ used at the table had been brined for some time.

She had studied for exams at the kitchen counter, being quizzed on geography by her mother while she mixed together dough for bread or batter for cake. A correct response was answered with a winning smile and a kiss, and sometimes, a spoonful of cake batter. Her mother had been convinced her daughters would change the world, and had just as much of an opportunity for success in life as any man. She had wanted Ziva to attend university, in stark contrast to Eli's plans for his eldest daughter. It was only one of many things that put a strain on their marriage. But things were different at the farmhouse. Lighter, happier. Until Tali died. Everything about the David family changed with the death of its youngest member. The farmhouse was never to be used again for respite. When Ziva walked through the door of the house two months ago, it was the first time she—or anyone—had set foot in it since the summer her sister had been killed.

Ziva rolled the other way in the bed to look directly out the window, and pulled the duvet up over her shoulders. Now, she thought, the farmhouse held a different meaning for her. Her old memories and feelings had not been erased, merely supplemented; now warring with the sense of security from the child's perspective was the sense of unconditional love and passion from the woman's. It had taken months for her to hide, months for him to find her, and they had had but days together. Eight of them; one for every year they had been partners.

Angry. She had been so _angry_ with him when he had knocked on the screen door, unshaven and disheveled. How dare he come into her world and expect her to simply jump on the first flight back to America. How dare he confront her with the life she was so tortured by. How dare he use his knowledge of her against her—to track her down when she did not want to be found. How dare he sit next to her and try and justify the awful things she had done. How dare he say such intimate, wonderful, _awful_ things— _I'm fighting for you, I can change with you._ How dare he make it that much harder for her to leave her life behind. How dare he make her want things that she did not deserve. Love. A life. Children. With him.

The anger had slowly ebbed after their conversation in the olive grove. His quiet desperation and the raw emotion on his face as he begged her to come with him, _be with him_ in the way they had danced around for years had unsettled her. She was not used to such things from any man, let alone from Tony. The following morning, they had awoken to torrential rain. Without saying a word, he had moved to the kitchen and began to pull out food and dishes as though he lived there. She had watched him from her place on the couch, as he cracked and whisked eggs, chopped vegetables, heated butter in a pan. The sizzle of the eggs in the pan filled the room and competed with the drumming rain for space. The kettle was filled and placed on a back burner, and began to whistle loudly just as he went to move the pan off the flame. He had moved to get a mug from the dish drainer, and she watched in fascination as he made tea the way she liked it. He caught her eye as he added exactly two teaspoons of sugar and gave a small smile. He still had not shaved. The domesticity of the scene struck her, and she felt a longing again for all of those things she could not have.

Her eyes had been glued to his own as he moved towards her with the prepared mug of tea. He had leaned over the back of the couch to hand it to her, and waited with his arms braced on the cushions as he awaited her inspection of his tea-making skills. He had quietly asked her, in a joking manner, if it met with her approval. And suddenly, she realized just how close he was. Close enough for her to feel the heat from his body, smell the clean, woody scent of his cologne. He was entirely too close and not close enough at the same time. She set the mug down on the side table. Slowly, deliberately, trying to gain some control over her body. When she turned back, he was still there, looking at her curiously. The question that had been on his lips was swallowed by her own as she fisted one hand around the collar of his t-shirt and pulled him on top of her over the back of the couch. It had not been the most graceful kiss of her life. The momentum had him tumbling them off onto the rug in front of the couch, and her on top of him as he had reached for her to steady himself. But the interruption did little to cool them off, as he reached to tangle his finger in her curls and claim her with his mouth again. They had spent the whole of that rainy day, and well into the night, getting acquainted with parts of each other they had only fantasized about.

Watching him leave had been one of the hardest things she had ever experienced, up to and including her time with Saleem and his men. _Hardest 180 of my life,_ he'd promised her, as he had walked backwards towards the plane. She had needed him to leave, needed him to go back and live his life. But that did not mean it had not hurt her as though she was losing a limb. She had slipped her Star of David into his suit pocket, in the hopes that it would bring him the same comfort it had given her. That night had been six weeks ago, but the pain still cut fresh when she thought about it.

Ziva shook herself from her reverie and squinted her eyes to peer more closely at the shadows on the floor. Those were not the shadows of the early morning, as she had suspected. She groped for her cell phone, resting on the bedside table, and glanced at the time. _10:30_. Mid-morning? Ziva could not recall a time in her life when she had ever slept until mid-morning. She had gone to bed early the night before; she should have awoken earlier. Yet, even as she read the time incredulously, she could not bring herself to leave her bed. She felt tired, so tired. Her body had been weary, calling for long periods of rest in the middle of the afternoon and bedtime soon after the sun went down. Having no other obligations, Ziva was happy to indulge, but it was worrisome.

She finally took a deep breath and threw back the duvet, sitting up on the mattress and leaning back against her hands as she woke up a bit more. She wondered what the team was doing back in Washington. Thanksgiving was fast approaching; she hoped Ducky would once again be hosting. She wondered what Tony was doing, how he was doing. Was he in a similar state—living on memories and dreams of their time together? Had he moved on? She shook her head to dislodge that last thought and made her way to the kitchen to make breakfast. She pulled out a box of tea bags. Not her usual variety; black tea had not appealed to her recently. She filled a mug with boiling water and stared at the generic picture for the calendar hung on the side of the refrigerator. Her eyes slid to today's date, and she frowned. She slipped her phone out of her pocket to check that she was right—was it really that late in the month? She did a quick calculation in her mind; her cycle was off.

She pulled the calendar off the refrigerator and flipped to the previous month. She had missed last month, as well. Could that be right? To miss one month was one thing, but to miss one and have the next one be so late? She skimmed her fingers over the small squares, trying to determine when her last should have come. Two weeks after the start of the month, from what she could tell. She flipped again to the current month. Five days ago was when it should have started this month. It was not just late; it was missed again.

Ziva felt all of the blood drain from her face and black dots danced before her eyes. She groped for a kitchen chair and sank down into it. _This cannot be happening._ Her thoughts raced. Surely she was mistaken. She had been told after Somalia that pregnancy was unlikely if not impossible; the trauma to her body had been too great. As she had been lucky to escape with her life, she had not given it much thought. _But now…_ She ran her hands through her hair and then tugged handfuls in frustration.

Tea forgotten on the counter, she rushed to get dressed and find her shoes. She needed to find a pharmacy. She needed an answer.

It was the fastest trip to any store she had ever made. In less than five minutes, she was perched anxiously on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the test as though she could will it to work faster than the box said it did. The timer went off on her phone, startling her. Heart pounding, she peered over the edge of the sink at the test where she had placed it. Through the tiny window, she could make out—very clearly and distinctly—a plus sign.

Pregnant. She was pregnant.

 **A/N: I had at least half of a second chapter written a few days ago, but decided today that I wanted to structure this an entirely different way and had to start over. That other chapter will probably be reworked into something else later.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **A/N: Thank you all so much for your support. It really means a lot! Sorry for the delay. Super busy here, plus it's been really hot out here.**

Tony wasn't sure how much more change he could take. His entire world had been flipped upside down, right side up, and then flung sideways against the wall in a very short amount of time. And now, _this._ He buzzed with the kinetic energy of the sleep-deprived, like a clock wound just a little too tight. The TV continued to drone on in the background, now some late-night infomercial about a food processor. Tony groped for the remote control and impatiently mashed the volume button. The host's voice was grating on his nerves. And he needed space to _think, dammit._ He moved to the couch and settled the bag on the coffee table before reaching in to remove what was left.

 _Thank God for the go-bag,_ he'd told Tali when he had unearthed her stuffed dog. In the near-decade he had known Ziva, she had always had her go-bag packed and ready at a moment's notice. The worn duffel lived behind her desk in the bullpen, tucked neatly into the corner of her cubicle. Years of military and Mossad training, plus NCIS casework had molded a woman who lived nomadically, and sparsely. Ziva's go-bag had been meticulously packed. Neatly stacked clothes, toiletries in clearly-labelled plastic bags. Extra phone chargers, outlet adapters, spare toothbrushes and socks. Tucked into the side pocket was usually whatever novel she happened to be reading—the only concession made to leisure. Tony was finding that Tali's go-bag was packed in a completely different way.

Most of the contents of the go-bag had already been removed and relocated to various places around his apartment simply by nature of parenting. This included a tiny sandal that had ended up in his fish bowl after a particularly lengthy tantrum about putting them on to go outside. He was convinced his fish were still holding a grudge. Tony couldn't remember how the bag had gotten kicked to the corner of his living room. He reached into the bag. A stray diaper came to hand immediately; Tony noted it was the only one left and reminded himself to get more in the morning. A clear plastic bag came next, holding a half-full bag of what he assumed was lotion, if the earthy-looking plant on the front was anything to go by. The description and all other lettering was in Hebrew. He uncovered another bottle packaged similarly, this one most likely shampoo, as a hairbrush and comb were packed neatly next to it. Tony had a sudden vision of Ziva sitting and patiently combing out Tali's curls after a bath; it was almost physically painful. He sucked in a sharp breath. He moved both bottles off to the side, to be put into his bathroom later. Tali was sure to appreciate the familiar scent.

Next came clothes, carefully coordinated outfits. Shorts and shirts rolled together, so there could be no mistaking that they belonged together. A jumper folded neatly in half, and then into thirds, the matching shirt and leggings folded in the middle. A spare set of pajamas in the same footed style and fuzzy fabric as the ones he had found a week ago, and which Tali was currently wearing. The colors were bright, sunny. Mostly pastel, with a generous smattering of pink. Tony smiled to himself as he piled the outfits on top of each other next to the bag. Ziva David, ninja assassin, ruthlessly efficient federal agent, Ms. _I-Can-Kill-You-With-This-Paperclip_ had packed pink outfits for her little girl. And not just packed them. She had selected them in a store, purchased them, coordinated the pink items with other pastel colors that were complimentary, and folded the outfits to ensure they stayed the way she had envisioned them. No dark colors or muted beiges for Tali, though her mother's wardrobe was dominated by them. Nothing but bright, light colors. Tony found several receiving blankets in similar hues and patterns, lightweight and made of muslin. Practical for a baby born in the Israeli heat. One was printed with light purple flowers, another with pink and white birds.

Tony was discovering a new side of Ziva, one that he had never considered before. Ziva, not as a special agent, not as his partner, not as his friend, or his lover, but Ziva as a _mother._ Ziva as _Tali's_ mother, as her _Ima._ And Ziva as Tali's _Ima_ was miles away from the woman he had known. The Ziva he had known had tried tirelessly to remove herself from any and all emotion, shutting out what was too hard to handle and rejecting anything else. She had even shut him out, and sent him home without her. Ziva's love for their child, already evident in the way Tali missed her and longed for her, was overwhelming him as he combed through the bag she had packed. The Ziva he had known had few ties to material possessions, and preferred life without them. She had abandoned her apartment in Washington that summer, leaving behind the life she had built, physically and emotionally, for eight years. Ziva as Tali's _Ima_ had packed a bag with everything she felt her daughter would need to feel safe and secure. Familiar scents. Her favorite stuffed animal. Blankets, her scarf. A picture of her and Tony.

Tony reached into the bag again, and his fingertips grazed the bottom. Almost done. He swept his hand from side to side. His thumb caught on a piece of fabric, warn and almost threadbare. He closed a fist around it and pulled it out. It is the only item in the bag that was not neatly packed; he looked curiously at the wad of heather gray. He shook it out and flipped it over. He let out a half-laugh, half-sob as he realized what it was. The letters printed across the front were peeling and looked in worse shape than when he had last seen it, but he could clearly make out the words _Baltimore Police Department._

A vivid image sliced across his mind, of that gray, rainy morning in Israel. Breakfast forgotten, the cup of tea he had prepared her nearly tumbled to the floor in their eagerness for each other. He had awoken in the mid-afternoon to Ziva staring out the window at the storm. She had found his t-shirt from wherever she had thrown it earlier that morning and slipped it on; it had hung on her smaller frame. Her brown was furrowed and she appeared lost in thought. He had considered lightening the mood by making a joke about her stealing his clothes, but thought better of it. He had propped his head up on his hand and watched her watching the rain, waiting for her to return to him from wherever it was in her head she had gone. She had sensed him watching her, and turned to look at him. He took that as an invitation, and had moved to stand behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his chin comfortably on her shoulder. Neither had said a word. After a few moments, she seemed to return to herself. She pulled herself out of his embrace but kept a hand around his wrist. She led him away from the window, away from the scattered clothes in the room, and into her bedroom, where she had pulled him down with her and short-circuited his brain with a kiss. The shirt soon went the way of their other clothes, never to be seen again. Tony had been too wrapped up in his own grief when he returned to D.C. to notice he had been missing it.

He brought it close to his face, hoping it held the same scent of Ziva her scarf had. It smelled clean, like laundry detergent. No Ziva. Tony felt hot, frustrated tears prick behind his closed eyelids. He reached out an arm and swept the bag off the table, catapulting it into the table that held his fish bowl. It wobbled, but did not topple. God, he was so _done._ He was exhausted. He was emotionally wrought. He could bounce a quarter off his nerves, they were wound so tight. He knew he was onto something with the go-bag. But his mind was muddled, fuzzy, and _dammit,_ he just couldn't put the pieces together right now. He was too tired to try and figure out the intricacies of whatever conspiracy he was sure he'd just uncovered. The bag was packed earlier, and packed well. But there were no other clues, as far as he could see. Clothes, toiletries. Comforts. A little girl in his bedroom who needed him but wanted her mother.

He decided to call it a night. Leaving the clothes and blankets where he'd put them, he punched a throw pillow in a decently comfortable shape and lay down. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and prayed for sleep. A dreamless sleep.

He was awoken a short time later by the pitter-patter of tiny feet and a tentative shove against his shoulder. He heard a quietly-whispered _Abba?_ Another shake to his shoulder. Tony struggled to surface. Tali was undaunted by his lack of response. He felt the couch shift, and a sudden weight on his chest. He opened heavy eyelids to see his daughter curled up next to him, her curly head resting over his heart and her knees tucked up by his ribs. Her _Kalev_ was nowhere to be seen, but he noticed she had taken one of the blankets off of the coffee table and was clutching it tightly in one hand. The other was wrapped securely around a piece of his shirt. Tony smiled and patted her back. She looked up at him with sleepy eyes and called his name again. He couldn't tell if she'd had a bad dream or just woken up to find herself alone and gone to look for him. Either way, light was only beginning to filter into his living room through the blinds, and they could both use a few more hours sleep. He moved to his side and readjusted her until her head was tucked beneath his chin and pillowed by his arm. She curled into him, thumb in her mouth and gave a sigh. He kissed her crown and breathed in the warm, sweet baby smell of her hair. Despite all of the grief, and all of the pain, and all of the regret of the last week, Tali was never a regret for him.

Father and daughter awoke to mid-morning sunlight blanketing the apartment. It was still quiet; Senior was not expected that day, and anyone else he would be expecting was at work. Tali seemed to have undergone another shift overnight. Tony had been _persona non grata_ for the last few days, a poor substitute, in Tali's eyes, for her _Ima._ Tali now refused to be more than three feet away from him at any given time, letting out worried squeaks whenever he was out of sight and clinging to his pant leg. After changing her out of her pajamas into a clean outfit, Tali had unexpectedly raised her arms towards him to be picked up, and now did not want to be put down. She had a death grip on the nape of his t-shirt collar, and climbed him like a tree whenever he bent to try and put her on the floor. At the third attempt, he resigned himself to making coffee one-handed and spent the rest of the morning switching her back and forth as his arms tired. _Who needs a gym?_ He mused as he shifted her again. Tali was talkative and happy so long as he was close, and while he still couldn't understand much of what she was saying, he was grateful that she was at least interacting with him in a way that wasn't screaming and crying.

He answered a text from Palmer at noon— _must be his lunch break—_ about how things were going. Tony said nothing about what he suspected about the go-bag, but mentioned that Tali was having a hard time being away from her _Abba._ Jimmy texted in his usual exuberance that he had just the thing, and showed up at Tony's apartment twenty minutes later with what looked like a large, stretchy band. Jimmy assured him that _yes,_ it was a legitimate childcare product, and _no_ it wasn't going to hurt. What it would do, he explained, was bundle his daughter up like a sack of potatoes and keep her close to his chest, leaving his arms free to do whatever. The item in question had been Victoria's, but was an extra they had received as a baby shower gift. Tony stood awkwardly with his arms straight out at his sides while Tali sat, disgruntled, on the counter next to him and Palmer wrapped the device in a complicated fashion around his midsection. A few adjustments, and Jimmy declared that he was done and that it was ready to be toddler-tested. Tali let out a squawk as Jimmy lifted her off the counter, but settled once she realized that _Abba_ was the end result. It took a couple tries and some adjusting; in the end, Tali was snuggled directly below his collarbone, not unlike the way they had dozed on the couch earlier that day. Her feet stuck out on either side of his stomach, and she was able to either lean against him or lean away to look out. Jimmy told him there were other ways to configure it so Tali could sit on his hip or be worn like a backpack, but that he was pretty sure, from what Tony had said in his text, that she would prefer to be worn this way at first. And Tony had to admit, no matter how silly he felt, it was infinitely easier to do things around the house with two hands. He could only imagine the look on Senior's face when he saw it.

As Jimmy left to return to work, Tony took a good look around his house to realize it was a disaster area and that he was out of diapers, milk, and bread. Tali had her arms curled underneath her and pressed against his chest. She was humming a nonsensical tune to herself and kicking her feet in time to the song. Content, for now. His underlying theories and connections about the bag and what it meant—if anything—had to wait. He wasn't Very Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo right now. He was _Abba._ And _Abba_ needed to make sure his daughter had clean diapers and food other than leftover Chinese takeout. He sighed. This was going to take some getting used to. He grabbed his keys from the counter, plugged his feet into an old battered pair of running shoes, and started walking in the direction of the nearest grocery store.

 **A/N: I know this chapter didn't really advance the conspiracy plot much. It started out that way, and then veered suddenly into some Tony/Tali bonding. I didn't think anyone would mind.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **A/N: Is anyone else having the upload issue with or is it just me? This chapter was finished days ago, but it hasn't been letting me upload. Trying to figure out this copy-and-paste formatting, so please bear with me if I you've seen this updated about six times but the chapter keeps getting deleted.**

 _November 2013_

Ziva squeezed her eyes shut, the bathroom disappearing and swirls of colors playing behind her eyelids. She snapped them open again and peered down at the test. Still there. The pink plus sign still shining as brightly as a neon sign. She reached for the box it had come in and scanned the instructions printed on the back. No errors. No mistakes. The plus sign definitely meant pregnant. _Pregnant._ There was a _baby_ inside her, _growing_ inside her. Fingers, toes, a beating heart. The hand that was not braced against the sink instinctively flew to cover her abdomen, a warm blanket over where the child— _her_ child—was resting. Her eyes followed the movement of her hand, and it all suddenly became too much. She felt her knees give out, and she sank heavily onto the fuzzy blue bathmat in front of the tub, her forehead resting against her knees. She concentrated on taking slow, even breaths. Her head was spinning and she felt nauseous.

She flashed back to a conversation she had had years ago with Agent Barret, who had inquired about her plans for her a life beyond NCIS. _Someday,_ she'd said. An increasingly distant someday. The question had caught her off-guard. A life beyond work and duty had only recently crossed her mind; it had never been an option when she had been part of Mossad. She had not expected to reach her twenty-fifth birthday; talented Mossad officers did not live to see thirty, and she had been determined to be the best. They did not have partners. They did not have families. They did not have children. They did not get attached. The few officers she had known who had attempted to have both worlds did so poorly. Their marriages and relationships with their children bent, cracked, and broke under the pressure. Her own father was a prime example. Eli had certainly never encouraged a life outside her service to Mossad, and never anticipated for her a future outside her devotion to her work. Mossad was to be her life, her passion, as it was his.

After Mossad, it had seemed impossible. The trauma to her body from her time in Saleem's camp had simply been too much. That had been the exact phrasing the doctor had used. _Simply too much trauma._ It was unlikely she would ever conceive a child or carry one to term. As a woman who had almost died, and been ready to die, less than forty-eight hours earlier, the news had seemed trivial. And since then, she had been too busy trying to rebuild her life, her _identity_ away from Israel and Mossad to give it much thought. And then she had lost sight of herself, lost herself. And now she was here.

Ziva leaned back against the tub and tilted her neck over the edge, staring through watery eyes at the ceiling. It was painted white, decorated in fancy swirls of plaster. A sudden memory invaded her mind of herself at three or four years old, taking a bath. The window had been open to let out the steam and let in the cool evening breeze. Her fingers wrinkled from the bathwater, and her head a mess of soapy curls. Her mother instructed her to lean back, so the bubbles could be rinsed away. It was then that Ziva had noticed the decorations on the ceiling. She had looked at them thoughtfully, and commented that they looked like decorations on a cake. Her mother had paused in her rinsing, looked up, and laughed. _I suppose you are right, motek,_ she had said. _What an imagination._ She ran a hand through Ziva's hair to make sure no soap remained, before moving back to open a fresh towel to wrap her in.

The memory brought fresh tears to her eyes, that ran down the sides of her face and ran into hairline. Rivka David had been a force to reckon with; she had to be to go head-to-head with the likes of Eli. Fiercely opinionated and never afraid to speak her mind, she and Eli had fought like bitter enemies until the very end. Eli had been devoted to Mossad. Rivka had been devoted to her family, her children. Eli's love had always come with strings attached. Rivka had offered hugs, kisses, reassurances, and encouragement unconditionally. She had instilled in Ziva the idea that her potential was unlimited, and that she was loved. Before everything had unraveled, and she had become _this._

Her hand drifted again to the life taking shape within her. Her mind kept trying to wrap itself around the idea, but it was slippery and kept cycling back to the beginning. She could not reconcile the word _mother_ with herself in the same sentence. _Mother_ meant Rivka, and Ziva was nothing like Rivka. _Ima_ had been full of love and laughter. Ziva was full of despair and loathing. _Ima_ had always been sure of herself, known exactly who she was and what she wanted from life. Ziva hardly recognized her own reflection in the mirror. Her mother had used her hands to soothe and comfort. Ziva had used hers to maim and kill. She had _nothing_ to offer this child. She could not be a mother. She did not _deserve_ to be a mother. Women with body counts in the hundreds had no business pretending they were good people, and no business pretending they could raise the next generation.

She lifted herself off the bathmat and looked again at the test. Still positive. She threw it away and washed her hands. She was tired again. She needed to quiet her racing mind. A glance at the clock told her it was only a scant three hours since she had crawled out of bed, but she felt no guilt as she slid back beneath the covers. _What do I do now?_ She thought as she pulled the duvet up to her chin. Her sleep was choppy. Her dreams weaved in and out, combining the past with her present. She dreamed of death, of fire and the stench of blood. A screaming infant that she could hear but neither see nor touch. Saleem's face overshadowing all, his lips twisted into a cruel grin as he laughed at her attempts to find the baby and stop the crying. She could not find a comfortable spot in her bed, kept flipping her pillow to find a cool side. She felt the heat of the Israeli afternoon creep into the bedroom, seeping into her dreams and making her shirt stick and twist.

She awoke in the early evening hours, disoriented and thirsty. Her mouth felt like it was filled with cotton, and her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had not eaten yet today. She moved to the kitchen to make herself another cup of tea, wrinkling her nose at the one she had left on the counter that morning in her haste to make it to the pharmacy. The familiar motions of making tea and putting bread in the toaster helped to make her feel more like herself again, or at least more like she had in recent days, before her world had been turned upside down. Her mind continued to race with questions and _what-ifs,_ which Ziva forced herself to ignore until after she had eaten. Her mother had been a believer in solving problems in a full night's sleep and a full stomach. _Things always look worse when you are tired and hungry,_ she had said. She was under no illusion that toast and tea could solve her current problem, but she was hopeful that it would at least clear her mind.

She wandered into the living room, settling on the couch and tucking her legs beneath her. As she took a bite of toast, she let her eyes wander the room. She needed to clean; she had not done anything in the way of housework outside of washing dishes since she arrived. Dust clung to the furniture and floated in the air. She made a mental note to spend time the following day with a dusting cloth and some furniture polish. A lump of heather gray fabric caught her eye on the floor under the dining table. She brushed the crumbs off her fingers and rose to investigate. A t-shirt, soft and well-worn. She flipped it over and read the words _Baltimore Police Department_ printed across the front. Tony's. Heat touched her cheeks. _She_ had been the one to tug it off of him and throw it across the room with abandon. And apparently neither of them had gone looking for it in the days after that. She held it close to her face and took a deep breath. It smelled like cotton, like sand and sweat, and like _him._

 _Tony._ The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. She was _pregnant._ And the baby was _Tony's._ Her mind had been wrapped up what this meant for her, but had given no thought to what this would mean for him. He would be a father. The baby would be half of him, half of her. Of course, basic biology courses in school could have told her that, but the awareness suddenly made it all a little more real. Since he had left, it had been her and the farmhouse. A small, desolate island. The trip to the pharmacy this morning was the first time she had ventured beyond the end of the property in weeks. But now, she could no longer pretend there was not a world beyond those walls. Part of that world was the father of her child, a thousand miles away and blissfully unaware, as she had been yesterday.

She dropped the t-shirt onto the back of a dining chair and reached for the cell phone she had discarded weeks ago. She flipped it over and hovered her thumb over his picture before hesitating. She had not had contact with him since she had watched him leave. No phone calls, no e-mails, nothing. She had asked him to move on with his life while she rebuilt hers. Would a phone call be welcome? Would he even answer? And what would his reaction be to the baby? She bit her lip. No, he needed to know. He deserved to know.

Just as she had made up her mind to call, her phone began to buzz in her hand. The caller display read a local number, but one she did not recognize. She moved her thumb to swipe left to end the call, half convinced it was a marketer or some other trivial call. Something in her, however, pressed down and swiped right to answer. She raised the phone to her ear, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. An Israeli phone number on a phone she had not used in months. Few people knew this number, fewer still would try to reach out. She snapped out a quick _Shalom?_

 _"Mossad Director Elbaz has requested to speak with you,"_ chirped a bright, young receptionists voice in well-articulated Hebrew. _"Please hold."_ Before Ziva could say anything, a contemporary pop song filled her ear. It was replaced a moment later by the voice of possibly the last person in the world she wished to speak to.

 _"Ziva?"_

 _"Shalom, Orli. To what do I owe the pleasure?"_ Ziva made no attempt to hide the sarcasm she knew was evident in her tone. She plucked the collar of Tony's t-shirt, needing something to do to calm her nerves. _"I am no longer Mossad. My actions are none of your business."_

 _"I come as a friend, Ziva, not as Mossad Director."_

 _"We are not friends."_

 _"Noted."_ A pause. _"Then think of me as the executor of your father's wishes. He would have wanted you to be safe. Which is why I have called."_

 _"I am not interested in anything you have to say."_

 _"Ziva,"_ Orli's voice came through sharp, snappish. _"Do not be foolish. You have many enemies in Israel. Do not think that just because you have left Mossad and NCIS that you no longer have a bounty on your head. I have recently received intelligence that someone has been looking for you. A man was seen trying to pick the lock on your father's home in Tel Aviv, presumably to get information on your whereabouts."_

 _"A man? No name, no description? That is the information you have?"_

 _"We have more information, but I would rather not talk about it on this line; it is not secure. I need you to come into the office, Ziva. I would like to discuss this with you in person. How soon can you get here?"_ Ziva pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. The last thing she wanted was to be pulled back into the world of Mossad. And Orli was not to be trusted. But if the threat was real…Ziva looked down at her still flat stomach. Things were different now, and her life was not the only one that hung in the balance. She sighed.

 _"I will be there in the morning."_ She hung up abruptly, feeling a childish need to have the last word. She swiped the screen of her phone until she was once again at her contacts, and was again poised to call Tony. It would be mid-afternoon there, and she expected she would go to voicemail. She paused, the niggling anxiety of Orli's phone call nibbling at her brain. Orli had a point—her cell phone line was not secure. And if Orli was telling the truth and an enemy was seeking her out, she did not want to make Tony a target. Or the baby. She placed the phone face down on the table and turned it off. She would call tomorrow, after she had an idea of what kind of enemy she was dealing with.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **A/N: I have been on for 12 years, 11 of them as an author, and I've written dozens of pieces. This fic is my first to reach over 100 reviews! Thank you all so, so much for the support and feedback. I really appreciate it! Also, re-watching the episode, I'm realizing this fic takes some liberties with the timeline of the episode—mostly stretching it out. The timeline for that episode appears to be about 48 hours, which is just too short for me. That's what I get for writing four chapters after only watching the episode once.**

Tony wasn't sure what he was expecting when he went to the grocery store, but the reality of taking a toddler out in public was somewhat different from what he had imagined. And oddly, it wasn't even Tali who had caused the trip to be out-of-the-ordinary. At least not directly. She remained content, trussed up in the baby-holding device Palmer had tied her into an hour ago, sometimes humming quietly and other times stopping to point at an object and supply her father with the Hebrew word for whatever it was. Or at least, he assumed it was Hebrew. The half-mile walk from his apartment to the small market he frequented took twice as long, and he was about twenty feet from the door of his apartment building when he noticed it. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he recognized the unsettling feeling of being watched. He glanced around surreptitiously, but saw no danger. He put a hand on Tali's back, wondering if he should forget the trip and return home.

It was when Tali pointed a tiny finger towards a bright orange flower in a pot on someone's windowsill and crowed out a word he didn't understand, and he heard a breathy chuckle from around his right elbow that he realized that he _was_ being watched, but not in the way he was accustomed to as an agent. More specifically, his daughter was garnering the attention, and by extension, so was he. The laugh had come from a grandmotherly-looking woman walking her dog. She gave him an indulgent smile and made a comment about little ones being so excited about everything. He smiled back nervously, unsure of what to do. Tali took no notice of the woman, but did lean over his arm to glance at her dog and reach down a hand to pet him. She couldn't quite stretch that far, but the dog, a tired looking retriever, was equally as curious, and sniffed the offered hand. When his tongue reached out to lap at her fingers, Tali squealed and wriggled all over in either delight or disgust, he couldn't tell. The woman laughed again, cooing to Tali that she had made a new friend, before moving with the dog to cross the street.

As Tony continued to walk down the sidewalk, he realized the woman had not been the only one watching him. Being early afternoon, the crowd on the street and in the stores consisted of mainly young families with small children and retired people running errands. He noticed several eyes on him and Tali as he walked. Some were amused, others smiled at Tali as she resumed her humming. A few threw comments his way about his daughter's curls, or her brown eyes, or how adorable she was. He had even gotten a thumbs-up from a young woman toting an infant in a similar baby-holding device to the one Tali was in. Tony also realized, uncomfortably, that he was gathering quite a few interested stares from young women, who gave him an up-down once over as they walked by. He vaguely remembered something from somewhere about "picking up babes with babes," but really didn't want to think about it right now. He hoped none of them would actually approach him. _Barking up completely the wrong tree, sorry._

As he entered the grocery store and was assaulted by the bright, florescent lights and hum of activity, Tony realized he hadn't really _gone_ anywhere since bringing Tali home, save for going for a walk with McGee for updates. Senior had thus far been taking care of supply runs, leaving Tony to acclimate in the small space of his apartment. He pulled out a cart from the front of the store and pushed it towards the nearest aisle, armed with the bare basics of a mental list. He debated whether or not to attempt to put Tali in the child seat of the cart, but quickly dismissed the idea. For one, he didn't think she would even want to sit there, if her attitude that morning had been anything to go by. For another, he was certain that if he got her out of the device she was currently in, he wouldn't be able to get her _back_ into it. Tali grew quiet as he strolled down the aisle, the humming coming to a stop. She drew her arms underneath her and snuggled into Tony's chest; he hoped she would sleep a little more—God knew she needed it after the week they'd had.

The grocery store was nearly as bad as the walk over had been. Despite not doing anything at all to bring attention to herself, Tali could not get away from it. The person slicing the deli meat gave a soft smile and asked him how old she was; when he replied that she nearly two, the worker said he had a grandson about that age, and wasn't it fun? Tony made some sort of noncommittal sound as he tucked the sliced turkey he had ordered into the cart. A woman working behind the bakery counter offered Tali a cookie—when he protested, she pointed to the sign that explained that children under the age of ten were entitled to a cookie during their shopping trip. He had taken it, wrapped in a white bakery bag, and thanked her. A little boy, about Tali's age, sitting in the child seat of his own cart, noticed her and pointed her out to his mother, who was perusing the produce on offer. Tony couldn't tell whether it was because it was another child or it was because Tali _had_ fallen asleep and was beginning to snore quietly (he _prayed_ the snoring was because of the position she was sleeping in and that she had _not_ inherited that trait from her mother…). Tony quickly moved through the rest of the store, throwing food and other supplies—he almost forgot the diapers, _dammit_ —into his cart. He wanted to go home, to put his daughter down for a nap in a real bed, and get away from all the eyes that were trained on him.

The express lane was open. He swung his cart into and reached to unload the few things in it onto the conveyor belt in front of him. The cashier was a perky young woman, at least twenty years his junior. She moved methodically through scanning his items and asking about payment, trying to insert bits of small talk in between questions of paper or plastic. He tried to be polite. As he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, the girl peeked around the card reader at Tali. She gave his daughter a smile, probably the hundredth she'd received that afternoon.

"She's a cutie," she said. "Those curls are just too much. And those chubby cheeks."

"Thank you," he replied, unsure of how to respond.

"And all tired out from a day out with Daddy, it looks like." She began to finally pack his items into plastic bags, thumbing them open without looking at them. She continued to gaze at Tali, before briefly looking back to him. "Her mother must be beautiful." She reached out a finger to tap Tali's tiny shoed foot, which had caught on the lip of the conveyor as Tony had unloaded his cart.

He opened his mouth to say something, _anything,_ but nothing came out. The hand that had been reaching to take the full shopping bag she offered froze. His next breath came out as a wheeze, as though the cashier had sucker-punched him in the gut instead of giving him what she thought was a compliment. He knew he was projecting a deer-in-the-headlights look, but he couldn't bring himself to move, let alone verbally respond. His mind fizzled and sparked, formulating a million jumbled responses, from simple agreement to bursting into tears. If the girl noticed, she didn't say anything, instead bypassing his outstretched hand to drop the full bag into his shopping cart. She walked him through swiping his credit card through the reader, and wisely did not comment on the tremor in his hand that meant he had to swipe it twice before it would read properly. He swallowed the lump in his throat and choked out another _thank you_ before hastily pushing his cart out the door before he embarrassed himself in the middle of the grocery store.

Tony stepped into the warm, humid air of downtown Washington and took a deep breath. He stepped off to the side, and leaned back against the brick exterior, his shopping dangling loosely from his fingertips and Tali still dozing against his collarbone, unaware of her father's inner turmoil. He thumped the back of his head against the wall. His eyes itched with tears. Of course, the girl hadn't meant anything by it. How could she? People made comments like that all the time. And it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Tali did not particularly take after him at first glance; her coloring and curls were all Ziva. He still couldn't help but feel like the comment had been spiteful, as though it had come precisely at this time to torture him. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. _Or maybe it's because it's been less than week since she…_ his thought process trailed off. He couldn't quite bring himself to even think the word.

He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the tears and some of his fatigue. He glanced down at Tali, who smacked her lips and gave another soft snore. Her head was twisted at what he could only assume was an incredibly uncomfortable position, but she didn't seem to notice. Her little nose was upturned at this angle, and the first thing he saw when he looked down. He didn't fight the impulse to drop a kiss on it. She scrunched it like a bunny and swiped a fist across as if to wipe away the sensation. The action woke her enough to blink her eyes blearily and look up at him with a moment of confusion. Her brows furrowed when she looked at him, either studying him or glaring at him, he couldn't tell. When she burst into tears, he banked on the latter. He smoothed a hand across her back and tried to be reassuring.

Tali was having none of it. She was furious that her nap had been so rudely interrupted. She was confused and upset that the person she had been cuddled up to was not _Ima._ She looked at him with watery eyes and asked for her mother in the most heartbreakingly tiny voice he had ever heard. He tried again to explain that _Ima_ was gone. He told her _Abba_ was there. Tali pushed against his chest with insistent hands, her voice growing stronger. She _demanded_ her _Ima,_ as though Tony was hiding her and the game had gone on too long. Tony was glad she was strapped in instead of him simply holding her; he wasn't sure he could have kept her from flipping herself onto the concrete. Tony sank down to sit on the ground. He held her close and rocked her. _God, kid, if I could give her back to you, I'd do it in a heartbeat._ What a picture they made. Father and daughter, both broken, huddled together on the sidewalk outside a grocery store.

Tali continued to cry and wail at the top of her lungs. She kicked her little feet against the sidewalk and into the plastic bags full of food. They were drawing quite a few stares from those entering and exiting the store. Tony wished he cared more that at least half of them were glares, obviously mentally judging his parenting skills. He wondered what they'd say if they knew he'd only been on the job a few days. In what felt like hours, but his watch told him was only a handful of minutes, Tali began to calm. She collapsed against him, exhausted. Her cries subsided to whimpers, and then to sniffles. Her cheeks were red and puffy, wet and hot. The thumb on her right hand made its way to her mouth, and she flexed her fingers against the fabric of his t-shirt. He ran a hand across her curls, which she pushed away. Ah, so they were back to that. He sighed and moved to pick himself off the sidewalk. Tali had no reaction as he attempted to counterbalance himself against her weight and lift himself with twenty extra pounds in front of him. After two tries, he was on his feet. Groceries in hand and a weary toddler snuffling against his shirt, he retraced his route home. He expected her to fall asleep again, worn out from crying. She did not, but instead sniffled and drew in shaky breaths as he walked. He dropped another kiss on her sweaty brow; this one was not wiped away.

Tali was quiet as he let himself in the apartment, juggling groceries and baby. A glance at the oven clock as he dropped the bags on the counter told him it was well past time for both of them to eat. He wondered if Tali had been on a schedule before, if maybe he should start one. He wasn't even on a schedule for himself. He made up sandwiches for both of them from the bread and deli meat he'd purchased. He went to layer cheese on top of vegetables and froze. Had Ziva raised Tali kosher? It was no meat with dairy, right? And no pork? Tony was instantly grateful that he hadn't bought ham, and did not put cheese on Tali's sandwich. Just in case. He cut his sandwich in half, and Tali's quarters before adding a hefty handful of potato chips to each plate. He nudged his daughter, and waited until she looked up at him before announcing it was lunch time. She said nothing, but seemed to accept it. He realized she probably had no idea what he was saying.

And despite her display when she had woken up at the grocery store, Tali did not take kindly to being taken out of the baby holder and placed in her high chair. She tried to push the tray away, and banged her fists on it when he snapped it in place. She ignored the square of sandwich he placed on it and twisted her body back and forth, whining in Hebrew and emphatically shaking her head. When she reached out her hands towards him and said his name, Tony decided he wasn't made of _stone,_ dammit. He did away with the tray and settled her on his lap. Tali's fussing stopped immediately and she pinched a potato chip off of his plate. He let out a mock tone of offense, which made her giggle for the first time in hours.

After lunch and a diaper change (still getting the hang of those), Tony decided the best thing for them to do is to escape the world for a while. He found the most child-appropriate movie in his arsenal and threw it in the DVD player. With Tali at one end of the couch and him at the other, the pair stare, transfixed, at the television screen. He wasn't sure how long this would keep her attention. It wasn't animated, and it was definitely in English. But she said nothing and huddles further into the couch cushions with her thumb in her mouth and Ziva's scarf tucked in her other hand. As the movie plays on, Tony let his mind wander.

His eye caught the go-bag, still resting underneath the side table that held the goldfish where he had flung it the night before. The clothes remained piled on the coffee table, forgotten. Though he would admit his thought process the previous night was influenced by the complete lack of sleep he'd gotten over the last week, even in the light of day, something didn't make sense. A go-bag was packed in preparation for something. At work, it was in preparation for a case that would take them away from home. All signs pointed to Ziva being ambushed at the farmhouse. Unprepared. Unable to plan. And yet, a perfectly packed go-bag and his daughter had reportedly emerged from the flames, unscathed. He glanced at said daughter, whose eyes were glazed over as she stared at the screen.

He furrowed his brow. Tali was, by all accounts, perfectly healthy. A little traumatized, suffering from some culture shock after being all but thrust into the arms of a father she had never met, but otherwise healthy. He didn't remember emerging from his own adventure in a burning building in quite the same manner. His memory was pretty hazy of what had gone on after he'd grabbed Jason and booked it out of the flames, but he remembered vividly the aftermath. The heat had scorched his trachea, and the smoke had wormed its way into his lungs. He had been wheezing and coughing up phlegm for weeks after that. Tali was not. No coughs, no sore throat that he could tell. And the house had been _consumed_ by flames, with smoke climbing miles-high into the sky. The chances of her walking away from the blaze alive, while her mother did not, were slim enough. But emerging without smoke inhalation or burns? Astronomical. Impossible. Implausible. _There is no such thing as a coincidence._ The go-bag had never been in that house. Tali had never been in that house. Ziva had not been _ambushed._ Something had gone down, and it wasn't good. But it wasn't the line he was being fed by Orli and NCIS. God, he was sick of games.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Tali's eyes briefly snapped to him as he fished it out, then back to the movie as he punched in his pass-code to read the text he'd received. He wasn't terribly surprised to see it was from McGee, checking up on him. He ignored the _How are you doing?_ opening. He tapped a reply asking for updates. He could hear McGee sigh at his desk in the bullpen from here.

 _Nothing yet,_ came the reply. A pause, with the flashing ellipsis indicating he was still writing. _We're going to get him, Tony._

 _I need answers,_ he wrote back. _Has anyone gone through Mossad's records of the investigation into the fire at the house?_

 _They're being pretty closed-lipped about it. They keep saying we will get the records when the investigation is over, but they have no idea when that will be._

 _Who's in charge? Who is heading the investigation?_ Tony tried to keep his patience. Stonewalled by Mossad. What a familiar yet infuriating feeling.

 _No idea. We've focused mostly on trying to find Kort._

 _Have they found anything in the house?_ He took a deep breath before continuing. _A body, remains, anything?_

 _Tony, the house was destroyed by mortar fire. Do you have any idea what temperature that would be? There probably isn't even a house left, let alone any remains. The foundation is probably Swiss cheese._

 _Then how do we know she's dead?_ he demanded. He waited for McGee's response. It never came. Tony swore under his breath and tucked his phone back into his pocket. The movie droned on, creating semi-pleasant background noise for his tumultuous thoughts. He looked over to where Tali remained. She turned to look at him as she realized his gaze was on her and gave a half-smile. Tony offered a small smile of his own and his resolve hardened. He needed answers. His daughter deserved them. Rule 36 echoed in his mind again: _If you think you're being played, you probably are._ He was definitely being played. The question was: why?


End file.
